


The Wolf and The Fox

by CrimsonFox



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Criminal Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Past Abuse, Pickpockets, Police Officer Derek Hale, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5245484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonFox/pseuds/CrimsonFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickpocket Stiles Stilinski (the self styled "Fox") lives on the edge of poverty with his Pack Issac and Scott in New York city. Police officer Derek Hale witnesses Stiles stealing and vows to bring the thief in,despite his strong attraction and developing feelings for the boy. But even a policeman as skilled as Derek struggles to follow the trail of the clever teen and the protection of his Pack makes things near impossible. But will Derek even be able to bring himself to arrest the cat burglar if he can corner him? The cut and dry rules of the law are about to get blurry for the now confused, smitten cop. </p>
<p>Note: AU <br/>No werewolves but Stiles is part of a human pack. Mentions of dark, past abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: Red Hood in a Snowstorm

Chapter 1: Red hood in a Snow Storm

 

Snow tumbles down from the gray sky, endless armies of icy white crystals falling to assault the city. Soon the buildings and streets will be shrouded in silent white snow drifts, giving the grimy metropolis a surreal sort of beauty before the pollution and exhaust turns it all gray and black.  A snowstorm in November isn’t unheard of in New York but it’s not a common occurrence either. Consequently, the adults of the city are cursing the timing of the atmospheric event and dreading the freezing, wet trudge to the nearest subway or taxi, the kids are simply surprised and delighted.

A thin pale boy, no older than eighteen surely, though it’s difficult to place his exact age, pulls his red hoodie closer around him in the face of the cold flurries and biting wind, it’s nowhere near enough. Though the boy is clearly freezing, his pale cheeks are glowing red and his hand are stuffed in his armpits trying to keep his long fingers from going numb, he doesn’t seem upset by the snow in the least, he seems grateful for it.

“Storms like this always make for good pickings; people are so eager to get out of the streets and into their Ikea decorated beige painted apartments they get careless and distracted. And they’re so bundled up and busy posting about the “snowpocalypse” on twitter they don’t feel when you bump into them, or when your hand snags their wallet.”

The teen smiled to himself, taking his hands out of his pockets to rub them together and blow on them for warmth,

“Time to get busy.”

-X-

“Hale we need to you and Deacon on that three car pile-up on 7th directing traffic ASAP!” A pissed off looking man in with insane eyebrows that pale in comparison to his manic hair barks the orders so loudly that everyone in the NYPD police station (and several people in adjoining buildings) hear him.

“Aren’t Travis and Raymond on traffic detail this week, Finnstock?” The cop identified as “Hale” asks, his expression inscrutable as he flips through files on his desk. He’s a tall, clearly well-built man with dark hair and deep intensity in everything he does.

“Well no shit Sherlock! Travis and Raymond ARE on traffic detail, and so are Reyes AND Dean, AND Hamilton too. But incase it’s escaped your brooding observation Derek, there’s a totally un-forecasted snowstorm out there and everyone’s losing their damn minds as well as the motor function necessary to drive. So I need you and Deacon on the crash at 7th ten minutes ago!”

Sargent Finnstock practically shouts, causing Derek and the more mellow and sedate looking Deacon to grab their coats and head out the door.

“You’ll get on much easier if you just learn to let him have his way you know.” Deacon says as they drive to the site of the crash.

“Do you think he was mad? I couldn’t tell” Derek says dryly, steering through the even slower than usual New York traffic.

“You can laugh now, you’re new, but once you’ve been following Finnstock’s orders for ten years you learn it’s all about keeping the boss’s temper as low as possible. If you see that forehead vein more than once a week you know you’re fucking up.”

Deacon observes, sounding for all the world like a younger, law enforcement version of Morgan Freeman, spouting sage wisdom in a soothing voice.

“You’re probably right old man.” Derek admits, the “old man” moniker earning him an arched eyebrow from his partner, “Just pisses me off when Finnstock pulls me off actual police work for something like directing traffic.”

“I know, but the gentle captain has a point, a lot of shit can go down in an unexpected snow storm like this, why this one time four years ago…”

Deacon proceeds to tell him a story about a Tiffany’s being robbed in broad daylight by two masked men armed only with crowbars and crossbows. No one outside the store ever saw them and the robbers were never caught all because a Coca-Cola truck had overturned on the street outside due to a freak blizzard, effectively demanding everyone’s attention.  All told the oddly armed criminals made off with several thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry and cash.

All Derek said was “Hmppf”, he drove on thinking to himself how Deacon was probably elaborating more than a little or just plain bull shitting.

-X-

“Not bad, not bad, not bad.” The boy in the red hoodie said to himself, ducking into the doorway of a parking garage to get out of the wind for a moment. He rifled through his pockets, feeling rather than taking out and examining his haul. A good thief never counts his loot in the open, and in New York a hell of a lot of places qualified as “open”. He’d learned that lesson the hard way when he first moved here, before Isaac found him. He still had a dime sized scar on his hand from that encounter, as well as a lifelong mistrust of seemingly deserted alleyways.

Besides, he didn’t really need to see his haul. When you’re a seventeen year old thief living mainly on your reflexes and cunning and you manage to snag some cash or valuables you certainly don’ forget them or their value, things like that make one hell of an impression when you have nothing.

Today he’d managed to get a silver Armani watch (what kind of yuppie even wears watches anymore??), two fairly pricey leather wallets he could sell for about 40$ a piece (even though they’re probably worth 50-60, but hey, selling stolen merchandise comes with some drawbacks), about 100$ in cash and change (people were carrying less and less cash these days, more and more credit cards), and last but certainly not least, a very nice pair of thin, black leather gloves. These the boy already had on, feeling his hands in them, after several minutes he decided that wearing them shouldn’t hamper his quick fingers and that he’d be just as successful at picking pockets as he would being gloveless. His hands would also be a lot warmer, seriously lucked out on these being the right size.

A good haul for only a few hours, great even. But you can always do better, and freak opportunities like this have to be capitalized on because of their rarity. The teen double checked his illicit goods and cashed, being certain of their security, then headed out into the cold.

-X-

“I don’t care if there’s a snow storm, I don’t care if there’s a fucking tsunami or a goddamn asteroid hitting the earth! I asked for Rhianna at my party, I PAID for Rhianna at my party and you better make sure she’s there and singing at 10pm. Or I’ll find a more competent personal assistant for my dad to pay!”

The irate young man yelled into his cellphone, (a model that wasn’t even available in America commercially yet)and listened with a huff to the speaker on the other end making profuse apologies and citing weather concerns. The teen was undeniably handsome, sandy hair perfectly maintained and piercing (if at the moment annoyed looking) eyes, and a jawline that could cut diamond. His clothes also spoke volumes about the money he must have, as well as hint at the well maintained physique beneath. However, it was apparent to the passersby hearing bits of his phone conversation that despite his physical beauty he was something of bastard.

“Listen Ryan, I’m going to make this really, painfully simple so that even a moron of your unique level of stupidity can comprehend it,” The young man said into the expensive cell phone, “Rhianna will be at my party at 10pm tonight singing and making my friends feel inferior or I will personally fire your ass on the spot quicker than you can say ‘sorry Mr. Whittemore’. I- hey!”

The angry teen stopped yelling at the man on the phone long enough to yell at the kid in the red hoodie who’d just senselessly bumped into him.

“Are you blind!? Stupid street tramp!” He yelled

“Sorry.” The skinny kid said, not even looking back as he made his way through the crowd.

The rich teen went back to berating his assistant over the phone cursing the idiocy of some people, not noticing till hours later that his Gucci, black leather wallet as well as his 1,500$ in cash was missing. 

-X-

The kid was good, Derek would give him that. Probably one of the best pickpockets he’d every seen, but the fact that he’d seen him meant he wasn’t as good as he probably imagined himself to be. If traffic direction hadn’t been so mind numbingly boring he might not have noticed the red hooded teen snag the wallet.

“Deacon wait here, going to check on a..uh..disturbance.” Derek doesn’t give time for the confused cop to protest as he runs down the street trying to follow the pickpocket as discreetly as possible. He waited for a few moments, keenly watching until the thief lowered his guard and ducked into a less crowded side street. In seconds he was on the perp grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around.

“I’m placing you under arrest for larceny.” Derek said, tone stern and more than a little intimidating. He was all set to read him his rights, recover the wallet he’d seen him steal and fill out the requisite paper work down at the precinct.

But that’s before he saw the kid he as arresting.

Kid was an accurate term, given his height Derek would put him at about 17 or 18 but there was a distinctly boyish look to his lean, smooth face. His cheeks were crimson with the cold and his mouth was hanging open, amber eyes wide in fear. He had short cut brown hair and his handsome face was haphazardly dotted with freckles. Derek wasn’t in the habit of letting his guard down like this, especially not while working. But the intense, unexpected attractiveness of the pick pocket made him unable to think let alone act or speak.

One moment was all the kid needed.

“I’m Stiles,” the teen said, evidently recovering himself faster than the cop, bewilderingly he placed a quick kiss on Derek’s confused, open mouth. “See ya round cop.”

With that the kid in the red hoodie, Stiles, shoved the speechless policeman into a snow drift on the sidewalk and ran away faster than should be possible in this weather.

Once Derek finally came to himself he felt an nauseating mixture of anger, frustration, interest, and (not the least of which) arousal.

“Stiles”

He muttered the odd name under his breath, thinking what he was going to tell his partner as he adjusted his suddenly uncomfortably tight pants.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2: Pack

Chapter 2: Pack

 

Stiles walked around random street corners and back alleys for a good hour before finally going home. He sure as hell wasn’t going to lead any cop, no matter how sexy and intense he was, home to his family. At last he reached the fire escape that served as the only feasible entrance to the apartment he Isaac and Scott shared.

Apartment was a very generous term actually. It once was a trendy studio apartment rented out for outrageous sums of money per month to rich kids with an artistic bent. However that’s before escalating gang violence led to this particular locale being labeled as a “bad part of town”. Now the owner of the dilapidated loft was fortunate to rent the place out to anyone, even three kids of dubious reputation, and he knew it. They might not be totally on the level but neither was the “apartment” and they always payed on time and with cash.

Consequently, Stiles and his two best friends (much more than that actually, family would be much nearer the truth) found themselves the proud tenants of a spacious if drafty studio apartment. One wall was exposed brick (quite trendy), there was a high ceiling with wooden support beams that were more structural than decorative. There was a large red couch that had seen better days twenty years ago and a television (no cable, only one channel, C-span) and a DVD player that were Scott’s pride and joy. The stacks of (mostly) stolen DVD’S were Stile’s contribution to Scott’s obsessive love of movies.

The kitchen only ran cold water (the one bathroom had both thank god) and there was a trick to turning on the stove so you didn’t lose our eyebrows, a trick Stiles had only recently mastered. The fridge worked well enough though it hardly needed to during the cold months as the apartment’s main problem was heating. Most days it was warmer than outside but not by much.

All said though it was a nice set up. Faulty heating system be damned, blankets were cheap and having two other warm bodies to cuddle up to was a not unpleasant necessity. There was only one bedroom and only one bed; also not an issue because the bed was more than big enough (Stiles could still remember sneaking the super king sized mattress out of the warehouse while Scott shamelessly flirted with the security guards patrolling the premises) and the aforementioned heating problem necessitated spooning for warmth anyway. The mattress had been free though, “stolen” more precisely (most things in the apartment were, obviously), and it was festooned with a staggering number of colorful blankets and quilts that helped tremendously.

Stiles unceremoniously plopped down and wrapped himself in a red and gold quilt with a slight tear in it, exhausted. Stealing, even in a snow storm with the people being apparently stupefied by the phenomenon of frozen water falling from the sky, was hard work, and he thought he was going to be arrested there for a minute.

Before he’d read the confused look on the cops face, and read it correctly as something approaching desire if what happened next was any indication. He could still see the confused, admittedly sexily confused, look on the guys face as he kissed him and ran off. 

Still though, part of Stiles felt ashamed he’d been so careless as to be spotted at all. That was a huge mistake, one that could cost you dearly. The easy pickings during the storm made him lower his guard. Still though, one of the best hauls he’d had in ages, the scratch off that rich prick alone would keep the pack going for months.

Pack, that term might sound like something a gang or group of thugs would call themselves, but really in this case it was much more innocent and less badass than that; when Stiles had first arrived off the train in NYC he’d been a scared, skinny kid running from his problems and demons, looking to make it big in the city.

Geesh how stupid and naive can you get?

He’d lost all his money in a matter of days, couldn’t find a job and so couldn’t pay his rent. He was evicted and thrown out onto the streets, where he was scammed, mugged, briefly stayed in a homeless shelter before being thrown out and mugged again. He was starving and pretty banged up when Isaac found him and took him in.

He was wary of him at first. I mean a cute, doe-eyed, curly haired savior taking him in and wanting nothing in return? There had to be a creepy, possibly serial killer related ending to that story. And Stiles had learned since coming to New York that there’s no one you can trust but yourself.

But the puppy eyed boy checked out, he didn’t seem to want any money in return or any weird sex deal (not that Stiles would object, how could you with those big blue eyes and that flawless pale skin?), he just honestly seemed to want to help Stiles. After some pressuring (and in this case, “some” means Stiles bugged him about it for two days straight until he finally cracked) Isaac admitted that he just hated seeing people get beat on and that Stiles reminded him of a younger version of himself.

Shortly after that he’d been introduced to Isaac’s best friend Scott and shortly after that they’d managed to move into the loft. Living in such a close space with the two guys it didn’t take long for them to bond, sharing meals, living space, and a bed does that to you. The bed issue actually turned out to be a non-issue, Scott identified as bisexual while Isaac and Stiles both admitted they pretty much exclusively liked dick. Not that the sleeping together was a sexual thing, though there had been incidents…but that’s beside the point, the boys weren’t weird or awkward about sleeping or even cuddle in the same bed.

The “Pack” thing had been Scott’s idea; it did nicely sum up the unusual extremely close relationship the three boys had. Plus Scott had a wolf tattoo on his back (probably the real reason he got the “wolf pack” idea, or at least so Stiles suspected) and soon convinced Isaac to get one too. After that it was only a matter of time before they wore Stiles down into getting one, however, desiring some level of originality opted for a red fox instead, on the back of his right shoulder. Lydia, Isaac’s friend an as of yet not officially licensed tattoo artist (though madly talented) had been happy to oblige and the “pack” name stuck.

“Stiles you home?”

It was Isaac

This money meant Isaac could take it easy for a while and stop pulling double or triple shifts at the restaurant he worked at. He did that a lot, poor Isaac; if the three of them were a pack then the blue eyed boy was the mama wolf, working himself to exhaustion to make sure his family didn’t go without. Everyone in the Pack helped out, Isaac had his gig as a waiter, Stiles was a more or less professional pickpocket, and Scott was a unique brand of hustler.

Stiles had been a tad weirded out when Isaac told him his new friend and loft mate was basically a prostitute. He’d been worried it was an Anne Hathaway ala Les Miserables  type set up where poor Scott was forced to sell himself to dirty old men in order to survive. Nothing was farther from the truth however. Scott had a reputation as the sweet looking hustler who wouldn’t hesitate to break your arm if you tried anything (he’d actually done it once, thus solidifying his status). But to people who played nice and could pay well he was a sweet, loveable kid you felt you could talk to after having fantastic, passionate sex (Scott was equally skilled with his words and well maintained body). Scott seemed to enjoy sex, no matter who it was with, and he got along well with almost everyone, getting paid was just an added bonus really.

“In here puppy eyes! You won’t believe the haul I got today, one little snowstorm and everyone loses their minds, and their wallets.” Stiles practically sang, fishing out the loot from its hiding place in his pockets.

“You were careful weren’t you? Even a blizzard in November doesn’t guarantee you won’t be spotted, especially with that red hoodie you insist on traipsing around in.” Isaac asked, sounding as maternal as an eighteen year old guy can sound.

“No, I got caught and nearly handcuffed by a burly, brooding police officer with ‘I’m-going-to-fuck-you-over-the-table’ eyes and sex hair, I only escaped to tell the tale by stunning him with a passionate kiss.” Stiles said in his most dramatic, soap opera voice, with a smirk Isaac would never know was due to the fact that it was the truth.

“I’m fine, clearly, and more importantly the 1,600$ I lifted is too.”

Stiles enjoyed seeing Isaac’s already prominent eyes double in size as he saw the money and stolen articles. He rushed to Stipes’s place on the bed and tackled him into a hug that would have been acutely painful were it not for the mess of blankets.

“That’s my sneaky little fox, quickest fingers in New York!” Isaac playfully ruffled the skinny teen’s hair and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“You know it! That’s why you wait tables for snobbish hipsters and Scott turns tricks for lonely rich types while Stiles here brings in the real dough with just a quick walk around the neighborhood.” The cockiest, smuggest grin was etched on Stiles’ beaming face.

“Uh huh, well at least our jobs have some level of certainty.” Isaac replied, playfully smacking the pickpocket’s shoulder.

“Certainty is vastly overrated. Anyway, with this and your tips from Friday night we can probably afford a modest celebration.”

“Cheap wine and pizza from Maroni’s?” Isaac raised an eyebrow, knowing the answer.

“Cheap wine and ALL the pizza from Maroin’s!” Stiles replied, tackling Isaac onto a pile of pillows.

“Did someone mention pizza?” Scott’s eager, childlike voice is clearly audible from the kitchen.

“Yes Scott, you bottomless abyss where junk food goes to die, I got a good haul and we’re going to treat ourselves.” Stiles answered.

“Ignoring your snarky comment because I heard mention of pizza you sassy street urchin, you.” Scott flopped down on the bed, effectively crushing both other boys, with a satisfied sigh.

“Ugh you weigh a ton dude! Seriously what kind of escort survives entirely on junk food, weighs as much as truck and still manages to get clients?” Stiles asks, gasping for breath.

“For your information, my clients love me, I have a winning personality and as for the junk food…” Scott props himself up on the bed and pulls his shirt and jacket over his head. His chest is smooth and incredibly toned, well defined pecs leading down to a rock hard six pack with a distinct “V” pointing towards his pants. “I don’t get any complaints.”

Scott’s smirk could be a poster for self-satisfaction.

“Ugghhh, you eat more curly fries and greasy food than I do, and you have that!” Stiles smacked his friends’ abs “There is no God.”

‘Sure there is, he just likes me more.” Scott retorts.

“Boys, we should all be celebrating, Scott stop making Stiles feel bad with your insane chest muscles, and Stiles Scott’s diet is his business. Besides you’re very attractive too.” Isaac stops the altercation long before it has a chance to start and pulls them both back onto the bed in a hug, one boy on each arm.

After that they play rock paper scissors for who has to run out to get the pizza (no one is delivering in this weather) and who has to run to the store for the discount red zinfandel. Stiles ends up getting pizza duty (losing on purpose to get the very first whiff and taste of that heavenly creation of cheese and baked dough) and Isaac is tasked with the wine. Scott in the meantime cleans up the loft though he refuses to put his shirt back on, Stiles got the distinct impression he was being taunted for the earlier junk food comments.

Isaac bumps into Lydia (the genius behind the fairly cheap though impeccably professional looking pack tattoos, Stiles red fox included) and her current girlfriend Allison and invites them over to celebrate; the quiet night in turns into a small intimate house party.

 

-X-

 

“What color were the man’s eyes?” The police sketch artist asks, not looking up from her pad of paper.

An intoxicating, warm shade of amber chestnut that looks like warm coffee in a pale cup or the first changing leaves of autumn before they fall to the ground.

Derek clears his throat.

“Uh light brown.”

The artist nods and draws for a few moments, her deft fingers speeding over the page filling in details and adding shades of color.

“Can you describe his face please? Were there any particular details that stood out to you?”

All the raw sex appeal of someone who’s gorgeous without knowing it or even trying, a lean pale face dotted with freckles and cheeks crimson in the cold wind. His skin was too flawless and pale to be real, artists and sculptors could spend lifetimes creating and never come close. And his lips, soft and red despite the freezing weather, curl into an impish smile sweet as sin revealing snowy white teeth as he leans in to kiss you…

“Ahem, he was skinny, had freckles everywhere.” Derek states, starring at his shoes trying to keep his mind on track; he knows he probably isn’t being very helpful. Sketch artists require great amounts of detail to produce an accurate drawing.

“And what was he wearing?” The artist asks, flipping over a new sheet to sketch an approximate picture of the suspects’ whole body.

Too much with a body like that, Derek almost blurts out, cursing himself about a thousand different ways in his head.

He was a cop godamn it, a cop describing a suspect to a police sketch artist with the intent to identify and catch said suspect. That was his job and that’s who he was.

“Uh this bright red hooded sweatshirt, and blue jeans with holes in them and brown tennis shoes.” Is what Derek says. But he can’t help think about how beautiful that bright red looked against the white skin and chestnut hair of the boy.

“Okay, this about right?” Erica the surprisingly talented sketch artist shows Derek two color sketches, one of the boy and one a close up of his face.

The resemblance is so close its unsettling, for a moment he thinks she’s pranking him, that somehow the kid who called himself “Stiles” is already in custody an she’s had time to study him and produce an precise drawing. A photograph could hardly be more accurate.

“I uh…” He can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Is it not close enough? Damn it! I’m sorry, maybe we can try again, maybe if I had a few more details-”Erica is exasperated.

“No, no it’s perfect, eerily accurate actually. How did you get all that from what I told you?”

“Oh well,” Erica allows herself a smug smile, “You learn to read between the lines when you’ve been doing this for a while. And no one I know of is better at reading between the lines than yours truly.”

“I have to admit, you’re very, very good.” Derek says, truthfully.

“Thanks officer Hale, and here I heard you were a hard ass.” Derek isn’t sure she’s being entirely professional at this point, “I’ll get some of these copied off and give them to Finnstock to send out. Have a nice day Derek.” With that she leaves with her sketches, black leather boots reverberating down the halls of the precinct.

Odd girl, good at her job though.

Back at his desk Deacon was having a much less productive time trying to get a description and statement out of the annoying rich kid, Jackson.

“I already told you, you moron, he was some dirty, skinny hobo kid and he stole half of my weekly allowance AND my Gucci wallet. Do you know ‘Gucci’? It’s Italian for ‘more than you make in a year’!”.

Since being robbed Jackson’s mood had not improved.

“I’m aware of that Mr.Whittemore,” Deaton said with inhuman patience and serenity “But perhaps you could recall some other details in addition to that…very descriptive statement.”

The glare on the rich youths’ face wouldn’t have just curdled milk; it would have curdled the pail too.

“I’m done here; I have a popstar to prep before my party. If this dirty street kid isn’t in jail for twenty to life in three days you’ll be hearing from my dad, and his lawyers!” The angry teen stormed out.

“Pleasant kid.” Deaton said, turning his attention to a desk full of paperwork.

“Sorry Deaton, I had to deal with him over the phone and convince him to come down to the station in the first place.”

“Oh no, it’s fine, honestly, I think we had a real connection, can’t wait to chat with him again, maybe get some coffee.” Deacon could make sarcasm seem sincere.

“Right. Anyway I’m headed back to 7th; see if I can’t get some local intel on our pickpocket, I’m willing to bet Mr.Whittmore isn’t the first person he’s ripped off.” Derek says, grabbing his coat and heading out into the cold.

“Derek! Wait up!” Erica was rushing after him holding a paper in her hand.

“Here you go good luck!” The smile she gave Derek while handing him the paper was distinctly mischievous.

It was her original sketch of Stiles’ face, his amber eyes staring up at the confused cop, unnervingly realistic. She’d signed it on the bottom right of the page, with a message that said.

“Did I mention I’m really, REALLY, good at reading the people I sketch for? Good luck with your “suspect” hope things work out ;)”

Derek flushed a deep shade of red that had nothing to do with the cold; he could have killed Erica at that moment.

He carefully held on to the sketch though.

 

-X-

 

It was about 4am before everyone went to bed. They’d been up most of the night watching movies (Halloween, Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Little Miss Sunshine, courtesy of Scott’s massive DVD collection) and eventually playing drinking games (courtesy of the cheap wine provided by the Pack and the three jars of moonshine inexplicably produced  from Lydia’s petite purse). Allison clicked with the group almost immediately. No one knew where Lydia had found her but she was quite the catch easy going, wicked smart and of course, gorgeous. She also apparently had some mad ninja skills or military training since she’d been able to hit an apple off Lydia’s head with a kitchen knife thrown from across the room, the boys thought it was a joke right until it happened and the blade stuck in the apple knocking it harmlessly off her girlfriend’s head. After that they’d had a joint heart attack.

Currently the pack, plus Lydia and Allison, and minus Stiles were passed out in various s degrees of cuddling under the dozens of blankets on the massive bed. The girls had wanted to take the couch but with the freak winter weather it would have been much too frigid out there. They two were wrapped in each other’s arms sleeping contentedly (if a tad drunkenly) beside Scott and Isaac.

But Stiles couldn’t join his family, he couldn’t sleep and he didn’t want to wake the Pack with his tossing around. So instead he threw on several layers of the discarded coats lying around, wrapped a blanket around himself for good measure and walked out onto the fire escape. There was a soft layer of white fluff on the steel of the metal structure, cushioning the teens’ footsteps as he walked out to get a better view of the city. His usual habit when he couldn’t sleep, starring out at the metropolis that also couldn’t rest.

There were few cars out and no people. The snow was still falling but only ever so slightly, the aftershocks of the initial storm. There were several inches of icy, pale snow on every surface in the city, making all the buildings seem like they’d grown in the night. All the lights and sounds of the city were muffled almost imperceptibly like being viewed through a gauze sheet. Stiles’ breath clouded the air, wreathing his face in mist.

He couldn’t forget the face of the cop who’d almost taken him in. He was hot sure, fucking sexy even. But it was more than that, he’d seen plenty of hot guys in his day, even slept with some of them, but there was something more about this guy; something naggingly different, something alluring enough to be dangerous. There was an intensity and fierceness in his eyes alone that made Stiles weak, he could have easily escaped without that kiss, using it as a shock tactic was only its secondary purpose. He could still almost taste the tinge of black coffee and orange on the cops’ lips…

Damn it! Getting attached to anyone who wasn’t Pack was extremely dangerous, and a cop? You’re out of your fucking mind and practically begging to be thrown in prison. And in this world you can only trust yourself and your family.

Stiles went inside, trying to erase thoughts of the cop from his mind. He stripped off the layers of coats and eventually his own clothes underneath until he was in a pair of tight black boxer briefs. Quickly rushing into bed to escape the nights’ chill he climbed under the covers (all three layers of them) between Scott and Isaac. Snuggling close to his friends that are so much more than friends, (they’re closer even than most people are to their biological family) he drifts off to sleep in between the warm bodies of his Pack.

 


	3. Chapter 3: Showers and Shakespeare

Chapter 3 Showers and Shakespeare

 

Derek was just going to bed close to dawn as well, but had a very different night leading up to him finally being able to rest. The empty apartment he lived in was littered with police files, victim statements, and photos taken from traffic cams and store surveillance tapes. Most of the information, that he’d through such pains to get, was useless for his case and thus left on the floor. The relevant documents and a few blurry photographs were spread out on the coffee table.

Derek had done a lot of work very quickly. And it had been exhausting.

He wasn’t about to pin the information onto the wall and make connections with push pins and string. He was hardly THAT obsessed. He was…motivated.

However, all that work yielded only the barest hints of actual evidence. Only two or three people out of the dozens who reported missing wallets and purses (and who knows how many who didn’t make a statement), actually caught a glimpse of the person they suspected of robbing them. Those few people though did report similar details, thin young man or teenager, wearing a bright red hoodie. But this was little to go on, its only real utility being to narrow down the pickpockets range of criminal activity in the city.

After hours of working and finally managing to make an approximate range or “hunting ground” the admittedly talented thief worked in Derek was ready to call it a night, or maybe a long weekend, he was beyond fatigued. He finished the small glass of Tennessee whiskey he’d allowed himself as a night cap and stripped down for bed.

 

-X-

 

“Aren’t you going to cuff me to something so I don’t escape Mr. Police man? The table or bed maybe?” No one being placed under arrest should be so cocky or so seductive. The steel handcuffs hold both the teens hand in front of his body as he lies on the couch, grinning wickedly at Derek.

“You have the right to remain silent and I suggest you use it.” The cop gruffly states, he goes to the phone ready to call for backup to bring the kid in.

“So stern and bossy, I like it. So any kinks you have besides the uh obvious...” Stiles held up his cuffed hands, causing his shirt to ride up and expose a toned, lean waist.

“Stop doing that.” Derek gave him his best glare and tried to keep his voice even.

“What? Does this distract you?” The pickpocket gestured to his bare midriff. “What about this?” Before Derek could stop him (who was he kidding he didn’t try) the thief had managed to unbutton his jeans and pull them down slightly, arching his hips up to allow the pants room to come down his thighs. The teen’s wearing a sinfully tight pair or red briefs that set off his pale skin wonderfully. It’s with some shock that Derek realizes the boy is visibly hard, his cock pressing against the fabric of his underwear painfully.

Ten years of police training fail him and he stands immobile, unable to do anything but look.

With a startling level of dexterity Stiles rolls over on the couch and rests his elbows on the armrest, his knees bent and ass sticking out. This change of position causes his jeans to fall even further down his pale legs, he arches his back.

“Come on cop; stop pretending you don’t want this. It’s time for my punishment, and I’ve been, ..Such a naughty, naughty boy.” Stiles says huskily, eyeing the ever increasing bulge in Derek’s pants.

The handcuffed teen grinded his dick onto the couch, ass jutting in and out in a way that was criminally arousing; moaning with the motion against the fabric of the couch.

“C’mon Derek, want you to fuck me like this, come on, need you…” Stiles face is red with need and lust, he can’t finish his sentence before Derek is on him. Yanking his jeans and socks off and pulling the teen’s shirt over his head to pool around his handcuffed wrists. The beautiful teen was almost naked in front of the cop, only a thin tight piece of red cloth hiding his body…

Derek tears the teen’s underwear off not caring he’s ripped them apart. Stiles gasps, now totally exposed on the couch; his pale, toned ass is arched and ready.

“I knew you had a wild side cop.” Stiles snarks, Derek doesn’t let the cocky grin stay on his face long, he pulls the teen’s head around to kiss him urgently, drowning out any other witty one liners the kid might have planned with his tongue. The teen moaned into the kiss, arching his naked ass into Derek’s groin.

Derek’s alarm screamed at him, yanking him out of the dream. He awoke, never having been more murderously angry at a piece of technology in his whole life.

 

-X-

 

One of the slight downsides to living with the pack and having a limited amount of hot water in the loft was that showers were almost never a solo affair. Not that Stiles usually complained, he’d never been one to complain about seeing his roommates naked, and more than once group showers had led to some very pleasurable experiences, and hey if nothing else you always had someone to soap up the hard to reach places on your back. But sometimes a horny teen just wanted to rub one out alone in the shower while thinking about being manhandled by a sexy man cop.

Being manhandled, and handcuffed, and thrown against a wall, with hot breath on your neck and strong arms around your chest…

The naked teen stroked his painfully hard cock under the torrents of (at least for now, luxuriously hot water), all the while imaging a litany of filthy scenarios involving Derek. The faster he rubbed his dick the closer he could feel himself getting and the dirtier the porn scenarios got. Currently he was thinking how Derek’s surely massive cock would feel pounding into him while he was bent over a table, handcuffed. As a more or less career criminal Stiles had some bizarre fetishes.

The shower curtain flew open, shattering the illusion and leaving Stiles painfully hard and distinctly unfulfilled, there would have been some embarrassment had he not been in dozens of more compromising positions with Isaac and Scott before.

“Am I interrupting…something?” Scott’s eyes lit up mischievously as he eyed Stile’s prominent dick.

“Nope, it’s always like this.” Stiles sighed, he loved the Pack but there were some things to be said for privacy. Already naked and without warning or preamble, Scott stepped into the shower under the steaming water.

“Dude, do you mind?! Kinda was doing something here?”

“Oh, sorry, let me help. I have to be somewhere at 1 so it’ll have to be quick.” Scott says, grabbing Stiles’ aching dick in his warm, soapy hand, jerking him off under the water.

“Ugh—nmppff” Stiles wants to protest but his friend is damn good at this and it only takes seconds before Stiles is close to the edge again. Scott seems to know this, bastard, and slows his pace, starting to kiss his friend’s neck and collarbone.

“So who’s the guy you’re after now? Hmm? I’ve noticed you acting odd since yesterday.” Scott asks, sucking on Stiles earlobe, fuck the smug six packed bastard knows that drives him crazy! “Danny? He’s got a cute face. One of the blonde twins Lydia introduced us to, or both of them maybe?”

“Ngghhh” Stiles isn’t able to retort with his pre-prepared comeback, something about minding his own business and doesn’t he have enough guys to keep happy himself, but he’s about to come and can’t think let alone speak now.

That’s when Isaac comes in, dropping his towel outside and stepping into the now slightly crowded shower.

“Stiles had morning wood again?” Isaac smirked, arching an eyebrow

“Not exactly, has some new mystery crush he won’t talk about. I was helping him take care of something but now I’m more curious about who his new beau is…” Scott says taking his hand off Stiles’ dick, earning a whimper from the skinny teen.

“Normally I’d say you should lay off, but…” Isaac bends down on his knees, his sandy curls drenched in the hot water, “I’m honestly way too curious too.” With that he takes the pickpocket’s cock in his mouth, sucking on it while one hand grabs his ass.

Stiles throws his head back, gasping, he should be so pissed at his Pack right now. I mean seriously, sexual manipulation as a way of making him spill his guts about a crush they really shouldn’t have even had a suspicion about? But it feels too damn good to be angry at them just yet. Scott starts working on his ear and neck, kissing his way down to Stile’s open mouth. He grabs the back of the amber eyed teen’s hair and pushes his tongue into his friends moaning mouth.

“Who is it?” Scott asks, just as he was getting close, the dual attentions of Isaac’s mouth on his cock and Scott’s skilled tongue in his mouth and on his body.

“Nmmppfff” All Stiles can do is moan.

“Tell us and we’ll let you come” Isaac says, taking his lips off the teen’s cock and looking up at Stiles with those completely unfair, big blue do-me eyes.

“Ugh you guys suck….” As if taking that as encouragement Isaac goes back to work on his friend, bringing him close to climax again.

“Nmmm, last name’s Hale, he’s a cop-ughhh---”While his pack mates are shocked, they keep good on their promise and Stiles shoots into Isaacs mouth while Scott’s making out with him and running his strong hands all over his lean body.

“A cop? Seriously Stiles?” Isaac says, sounding really stern for a man who not two seconds ago had a dick in his mouth. The puppy eyed boy stands up, water droplets glistening over his chest, down to his abs and further yet to the erection he still has despite the severity of his tone.

“I knew you had a few kinks man, but didn’t think men in blue and cuffs were one of them.” Scott says, apparently unconcerned, soaping his body.

“It’s nothing, just a cute cop I saw the other day. He’s not a crush, just spank bank material, trust me. Now if you two will excuse me, I’m going out for a bit.” Stiles says, deciding to forgo the rest of his shower in favor of some quiet time to himself to sort things out. “Besides, you two look like you have some issues of your own to take care of.” He points at their respective groins.

As if on cue Scott pulls Isaac into a close and heated kiss. Scott was one perpetually  horny guy. Isaac pulled away from the dark haired boy for a second as Stiles left the shower.

“Wait…did you kiss him? Was that story about kissing a cop to escape the other day true!? Stiles?!!?” Isaac yells after him.

“Oh sure Isaac, I’ll get some more milk for you while I’m out, anything for you pack mom!”

“Get your skinny ass back here Stiles!” Isaac cries. Scott just laughs.

 

-X-

 

Derek ransacks the non-fiction section of the New York public library on his day off. He raids the all too small section on criminal psychology and then moves on to plunder the few books specifically about criminal youths and underage offenders. Then he moves on to the exceptionally dry volumes about poverty statistics and demographics in the New York area. Know your prey.

He realizes only after making several trips to and from the stacks that there’s a teenager in a red hoodie sitting in one of the plush, midnight black leather chairs reading Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“Good for him, so many kids these days are always physically attached to some smart phone or iPod. There’s no appreciation for classic literature anymore.”  Derek nods his silent approval and goes back to the desk he’s claimed as his workspace. 

He’s half a chapter in to William Brigg’s book “Impoverished Youth and Crime: Why American Children Steal” and reading about a touching personal incident the author had with a pickpocket in Seattle before it hits him.

Red hoodie…

Teen…

Skinny. ..

Stiles!

 He jumps up and startles nearby patrons, rushing back to the leather chair that now sits empty except for the recently abandoned volume of Shakespeare. Dejected and angry at himself Derek walks over to get the book and put it in its proper spot on the shelves. When he reaches for the leather bound volume he sees a slip of paper sticking out from among the pages. It’s a note addressed to him.

 

 

_Dear Officer Stud,_

_I know you can’t get me out of your mind after our passionate kiss in the snow but you’ve got to stop following me, despite my innate charm and sex appeal you HAVE to resist. What would our parents think?! While I appreciate your attentions I must insist you stop stalking me, if not I’ll be forced to call the cops ;)_

_Sincerely,_

_Your Forbidden Love_

_Stiles, the Red Fox of Manhattan_

 

 

The message is clearly taunting him, but Derek ignores the urge to crumple the note or tear it to ribbons.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4: Plans Set in Motion

Chapter 4: Plans Set in Motion

“You did what?!” Isaac yelped, his voice perplexed and exasperated.

After a quick, breathless run home Stiles had spent about an hour pacing, cursing his own brazen foolishness, and wondering exactly which part of his brain was so intently bent on self-destruction. Needless to say, Isaac had picked up on the fact something was wrong almost before he opened the door. The curly haired boy’s concern had only grown when Stiles gave a brief, hurried account of what had happened.

“I know, I know it was stupid and risky and I’m not sure what I was thinking, it was just a crazy idea I had so I went with it. I didn’t use my real handwriting and I wore gloves when writing so they shouldn’t be able to get anything from it-”Stiles blurted out, trying to justify his actions as much to himself as to his worried and pissed off looking pack mate.

Isaac sighed, flopping down on the couch rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“You left a note taunting a cop, a cop who knows your face and who saw you steal from someone. Do you not realize how dangerous this is?” Isaac said, sounding more motherly and frantic every second.

“I know, but he hardly saw me this time and I got away before-”

“You won’t **always** be able to get away Stiles, I know you think you’re invincible because you’re a good thief but you’re taunting a dangerous animal here, a wolf that already has your scent.”

“Wow what a creative and vivid metaphor, I know I don’t say it enough but you’ve got a very well defined artistic bent Isaac-” Isaac’s glare made the nervous pickpocket stop his clearly ineffective flattery.

“Look, I know I’m not your father or anything like it, I just wish, as your friend, that you would stop to consider things before impulsively getting yourself into more and more trouble. I worry about you Stiles.” And the concerned, caring look Isaac wore would make angels fucking weep.

“I know you do Isaac, I’m sorry, I’ll really try to be more rational. I just…I don’t know why I can’t just go to ground and forget this guy. I know he’s dangerous and I know he could ruin everything we have here but I just, can’t stay away.”

“From who? Your sexy man cop crush?” Scott said drowsily walking into the kitchen in only a pair of blue boxer briefs.  Stiles glared at his pack mate and friend in that moment hating him for bringing up his embarrassing, dangerous infatuation as well as for managing to look damn hot after waking up at noon with pillow hair.

Scott yawned and nonchalantly strolled to the coffee maker, pouring steaming black coffee into a slightly chipped mug. The hustler blew on his drink and sipped it before saying, “I think you should go for it.”

Isaac looked like Scott had just kicked him in the groin. The reaction was that visceral and immediate, it was moments before he could form words. Stiles just thought he’d stepped into some strange twilight zone-esque world where one of his best friends was telling him to date a cop.

“Are you completely insane? Just totally psycho?” Isaac all but yelled.

“Call it a whore’s intuition but I think this officer Hale has a thing for our sneaky little Stiles, and who wouldn’t? Look at that face! He’s adorable!” As Scott said this he walked over and pulled the still stunned Stiles into a tight one armed hug.

“That’s not the point Scott and you know it! The issue isn’t whether or not he likes Stiles; the issue is that he’s a fucking COP! A cop who’s SEEN Stiles steal and probably knows or suspects about his other marks by now. Do you want him arrested?!” Isaac argued, pacing to release the enormous amount of stress he’d recently been subjected to.

“Only if he’s into that sort of thing,” Scott said, sinfully suggestive.

Isaac wasn’t amused, and Stiles couldn’t help but picture Derek handcuffing him and checking for weapons, then sliding his pants down with those strong, sure hands…

“But seriously, he all but had him arrested didn’t he? And he let him go, why? Because our sly, foxy roommate here kissed him. A seasoned cop doesn’t let a criminal go over something like that unless there’s some fucking strong attraction there.

“Attraction won’t stop him from arresting Stiles if he gets another chance! And besides, do you want a cop investigating his roommates?” Isaac questioned level headed and logical as always.

“Eh, I’m not all too worried, if I’m right, and I usually am, I’ll just give him a discount rate and an hour or so of heaven.” Scott winked, Isaac sighed and threw up his hands, flopping down on the couch and covering his face with his arms.

“You…you really think he likes me?” Stiles asked timidly, his face going more crimson than he’d care to see or admit. He’d thought about this possibility for days but it was hard for him to wrap his mind around that muscular, perfect, Greek god of a man being attracted to him.  

“If what you’ve said is true then I don’t have any doubts about it.” Scott said, shooting a satisfied look at Isaac and a wicked smile at Stiles. “Besides, a muscly brooding cop guy like that, you’re probably exactly his type.”

“What do you mean? Yeah I’m in alright shape but I’m too skinny and have almost no muscle tone and-”

“Are you kidding me? Ever heard that opposites attract? This scruffy, ripped cop probably LOVES younger looking, smooth, lean guys. And since he’s in law enforcement a cute boy with his ideal body type and a rebellious, criminal streak is like his ultimate wet dream, the ultimate temptation, the extremely forbidden fruit.”

Scott concluded his monologue in a mock (at least Stiles assumed it was) husky voice, deep with desire and implications. The idea of Derek getting off to and having dirty dreams about him gave Stiles a lot to consider and a not totally unpleasant tightening in his jeans.

“Yeah Stiles is hot, and yeah if this guy swings that way he’s probably into our reckless roommate, physically at least. That doesn’t make this whole thing any less dangerous or ill advised.” Isaac said from the couch, sounding for all the world like a testy schoolteacher lecturing unruly students.

“You,” Scott said, joining his stern friend on the pillow laden sofa, “really need to loosen up, you’ve been working and worrying **way** too much lately dude.”  

Isaac sighed in response to his friends’ teasing concern.

“Well it’s hard not to sometimes, being the only responsible one here and all.” The blonde boy muttered.

“Here let me help Isaac,” Stiles offered, seeing an opportunity to give his friend something besides anxiety for a change, “since I have been causing some…well…most of your stress lately. Scott get his shirt.”

Without a pause or a question Scott stripped off the curly haired boys’ sweater, revealing the muscled, pale skin beneath. Isaac didn’t have a chance to protest. Quickly Stiles jumped up behind the now shirtless pack mother and started kneading his shoulder blades and neck.

The effect was instantaneous. Isaac closed his eyes and breathed deeply, visibly relaxed and enjoying himself. He loosened up and rolled his head from side to side, making tiny almost imperceptible sounds of bliss as his friend and pack mate moved lower down on his back, kneading and working the ivory skin with his deft fingers.

“There ya go Isaac, told you you needed to calm down, if you’re not careful these cute curls will turn white in a year. Then you’ll have nothing going for you.” Scott joked, still holding his friends’’ sweater.

Rather than retort Isaac just held his middle finger up to Scotts’ face, keeping his eyes closed in a blissed out expression of serenity. Scott just laughed.  

“You know you love me, doll eyes.” Scott smirks, leaning close to his friend and planting slow, warm kisses on his neck, in the exact spots that make the curly haired boy make wanton noises in his mouth, apparently beyond his control. As Scott keeps kissing Isaac’s sensitive neck and collar bone Stiles keeps up his massaging, not showing any signs of fatigue. The freckled pickpocket is just glad he’s able to make his friend feel better after the stress of work and scraping by and now the added pressures of his own ill-advised taunting of a law enforcement officer.

“This is definitely not sexual coercion. The fact that we’re making Isaac moan like a virgin on prom night is just something we’re doing to make him feel good and we definitely have no ulterior motives to make him forget how mad he is at me. Nope, just pack mates helping a friend feel good and maybe forget some things for a little while…” Stiles rambles in his head, staring into the pale boys muscled shoulders and running his fingers down the deep line of Isaac’s back to his ass.

Scott sees this and goes in for the kill. He grabs Isaac by the back of his head and pulls him into a insistent, urgent kiss. With his other hand he feels down his friend’s torso, running his fingers over the muscles of his chest and the ridges of his admittedly impressive abs. Stiles continues his ministrations and, seeing that Scott is speeding things up, beings kissing the back of his friend’s neck, and slightly nibbling his ear, driving the angel faced boy crazy.

Without warning Scott uses both hands to yank at the waistband of Isaac’s jeans, pulling them up and off the boy along with his boxers in a matter of seconds. Stunned, the now naked Isaac gasps as he sits on the couch, surprised at how achingly hard his dick has become thanks to his pack mates attentions. Losing no time Scott makes Isaac lay down on the red sofa, his head resting on a pillow and his naked body laid out in front of his now standing roommates. Isaac grabs his cock with his hand, desperate for some kind of stimulation, before Scott swats it away and takes his friend’s hard on in his mouth.

Stiles, until now content to just watch the call boy make Isaac curl his toes and grunt in pleasure, beings to strip off his shirt and jeans; when he’s naked except for a small pair of orange boxer briefs he carefully straddles his friend’s chest. Isaac opened his eyes and looked at the beautiful boy on top of him. His face an improbable mix of angelic innocence and impish mischievousness, his ivory skin dotted with a litany of adorable freckles, his body a perfect marriage of lean curves, angles and well defined if smallish, muscles. He can see the thief’s large, hard dick straining against the bright orange fabric of his underwear; and reaching around with both hands he feels the well-muscled curve of his friend’s ass. Slipping his fingers between the cloth and the impossibly soft, firm, warm skin Isaac can’t help but think how lucky he is, it’s the only thought that manages to find a way through the hazy, desperate arousal he’s feeling.

Looking at this gorgeous guy on top of him while Scott’s …talented mouth works on his cock, the curly haired boy is grateful and deliriously happy that he has not one but two amazing, sexy guys he not only gets to sleep with but also gets to live and be friends with.

“Still mad at me?” Stiles asks, looking more innocent and sheepish than anyone with an eight inch hard on and his friends hands firmly grasping his ass had any right to be.

“Was never- nmmpfff-” Isaac starts but is cut off when Scott swirls his tongue on the tip of his cock, giving the doe eyed boy an incredible, pleasurable sensation.

“Was never, mad, only worried.” He manages to get out, one hand leaving the thief’s ass and coming up to cup his warm, smooth cheek. Stiles takes the hand in his and beings kissing the fingertips, holding it against his face like a security blanket.

Scott abruptly leaves his friends dick and stands up, stripping off his clothes before roughly taking Stiles’s underwear off too. He straddles the pale boy on the couch right behind Stiles and starts kissing his neck and shoulder, one hand stroking Stiles’ now free dick and the other attending to Isaac’s.

“We both worry about you sometimes Stiles, Scott says, very sweetly for someone who’s currently bringing his pack mate close to orgasm while leaving bite marks and hickeys on Stiles’ snow white skin.

“What would the pack ever do without our quick, clever Stiles?” Isaac agrees

“Crash and burn, without a doubt. And you two would definitely kill each other inside one week.” Stiles says, it’s a testament to his wit, or his mouth, that he’s able to retort at all while naked and being caressed by his insanely hot pack mates.

“Besides, don’t worry boys, I’ve just thought of a plan to take care of my hot cop problem.” Stiles smirks. Isaac and Scott are worried enough when they hear Stiles say he has a “plan” that they stop grinding on and running their hands over their hyperactive roommate, for a moment anyway.

-xXx-

Derek looks at the crumpled paper with the phone number on it for the tenth time that day. He finally decides it’s time to get it over with.

He dials the number into the phone on his desk and waits, thinking with every ring that he’s probably wasting his time. On the fourth ring a bubbly voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Hi um Erica-, this is Officer Hale from the police station-” He beings, not really sure where he intended to finish.

“Oh Derek! How’s my favorite hard boiled, brooding cop? Need more drawings of your special ‘suspect?’ ” Derek swears he can SEE her evil grin through the phone.

“No, your sketch was great I don’t need any more of those, I called because I need-” Before he can finally get around to what he called about, the increasingly annoyed cop is cut off by a mischievous chuckle on the other end of the line.

“Oh, if you want some more um- explicit sketches I can do that too, you’ll need to pay for those out of pocket though, I doubt the station will reimburse me for drawing your ‘suspect’ like one of my French girls.”

“Erica that is completely unprofessional and not at all why I’m calling right now!” Derek says, if he weren’t in a crowded police station he’d be much louder and more colorful with his word choices.

“But I don’t hear a ‘no’…” Erica retorts, apparently undaunted.

“Erica, never mind I’m hanging up-” This would probably have been a dead end anyway.

“Woah, woah, I only kid.” Erica soothes, “Except about those sketches, that’s a real thing, and way more profitable than you’d think or can afford. Has anyone ever told you you can be a real sourcop? What can I help you with ‘Officer Hale’?”

“You mentioned before we had our session last week that you used to work for a private investigation company?” Derek flipped open a file on his desk, “A ‘Argent Family Investigations’?”

There was an audible and extended sigh on the other end of the line.

“Oh boy,” Erica huffed, “Yeah I used to work for Mr. Argent. And yes, he can find out everything there is to know about your pickpocket.”

“I uh, I didn’t ask-” Derek stammered.

“Yeah, you did.” Erica said, if they’d been face to face Derek was positive there’d be a ‘who do you think you’re kidding?’ expression on her pretty face. “Look I’ll contact Mr. Argent and put in a good word, I’ll also email you details so you can set up an appointment. Just be warned, Mr. Argent is a hard ass, you are not going to like him and I know he won’t like you.”

“I um- okay, I don’t need the guy to like me.” Derek replied.

“Just trying to warn you chief. Bring all the info you already have on your suspect to the appointment you set up. Do NOT be late, he will refuse to see you if you are, I’m not kidding.”

Derek had never heard Erica sound serious before, but now she sounded practically grave.

“But you’re sure he can help me out? That he can find information about my suspect?” Derek asked.

“Positive, Mr. Argent is a prick and a hard ass but he is the best at what he does, him and his weird family could dig up the identity, birth date, and street address of Jack the Ripper if someone just paid them enough. Trust me, they’ll dig up EVERYTHING on your boy.”

“Thanks Erica, I really appreciate it.” Derek said. This phone call had gone far better than he’d ever hoped.

“No problem sourcop, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

P.S.

Comments and criticism are greatly appreciated / needed! Thank you all for reading. The next chapter should be up very soon and I know more are going to follow with some degree of regularity. 


	5. Chapter 5: Liquor and Espionage

CHAPTER 5 - Liquor and Espionage 

-xXx-

“And you’re both sure you’re okay with this? Because you really don’t have to, I know it’s asking a lot and it’s probably like a felony or something.” Stiles asked anxiously.

He was wearing a black hoodie rather than his usual red, (a loan from Scott that smelled suspiciously like Isaac’s deodorant) leaning against a brick wall in a side alley and talking worriedly into a cheap, throwaway phone. On the other end Lydia tells him he’s being a paranoid spaz and that Isaac’s anxiety is rubbing off. She also reminds him of how much he helped her with that Puerto Rican guy, Miguel and says she owes him, hugely.

“But what about Allison? I mean, she should probably stay away right? We wouldn’t want to get her in trouble with the cops over this, she’s not even invested.” Stiles says, nervously tapping his foot on the sidewalk. 

Stiles can just make out Lydia talking to another girl, Allison he’s assuming, on the other line for a few moments. Lydia assures him that Allison is in; she said it “sounds wicked fun” and she’s “been a tad bored lately”. Sighing, Stiles realizes he won’t be able to stop her and just implores Lydia to make sure she knows her part and to meet them outside the bar at ten thirty.

Scott, after asking a few of his clients and being persuasive in the way only Scott can, was able to find out that their man (or Stiles’ “man cop” as he jokingly called him) usually went to a dive bar called the “Triskelion” at around ten every night to brood, talk to no one, and drink a very specific brand of imported, single malt whiskey, “Wolfsbane”. Apparently an insanely hot male cop with stubble from heaven, eyes like embers, and sculpted muscles made quite a stir in certain circles. It was luck for them that Scott also made a stir in these circles and was on good terms with almost everyone in them; make that almost everyone in general.

After explaining his general idea to Isaac and Scott, (after an amazing bout of sweaty, loud, apartment destroying sex of course) the three had gone over it, scraped it, gone over it again and revised it at least twenty times. Finally they had a simple, elegant plan that even Isaac couldn’t object to too much. For it to work they’d need someone for Derek to be at least moderately into, and as they still weren’t positive of his orientation they had decided to hedge their bets and throw in a player from both teams, Scott and Allison. Initially Stiles plan involved himself, in some kind of disguise, seducing the cop. But Isaac and even Scott had shot this plan down as way too risky, so begrudgingly Stiles agreed to the Scott and Allison double team plan.

After hours of planning, night was coming and it was time to get moving. Checking his watch (“his” meaning he’d lifted it from a sour looking crossing guard without him ever having a clue) Stiles noted with no small degree of nervousness that Scott was three minutes late.

“Waiting on a hot date?” A voice so impossibly smug yet at the same time so alluring that it could only be Scott whispered from behind him.

Stiles turned to see his friend in a leather jacket he was fairly sure he didn’t own and a pair of blue jeans ripped here and there at the leg and knee giving him a sexy, rough look as well as showing his flawless skin in just the right places. Scott undid the zipper to his black leather jacket and showed Stiles his top, an insanely tight black V neck that showed off his biceps as well as chest muscles.

“Well, what do you think? After all, you should know best what turns him on, right?” Scott said, holding out his arms and doing a slow turn around.

“You look fine meathead,” Stiles swore inwardly, Scott looked fucking hot, “just remember the plan and try not to get to third base before you even leave the bar.”

“Someone’s jealous!” Scott practically sang, “Don’t worry Stiles, if he’s as in to you as I know he is then at best I, or maybe Allison, will just be a pleasurable distraction.”

“Distraction? Nu uh, mama didn’t get in all this to be ‘just a distraction’. I’m dressed to be an obsession.” A clear, beautiful voice said from behind the two boys.

Her outfit could best be described as assassin meets high class escort. She had on black leather, heeled boots and tight form fitting black pants. Her belt hung loose on her hips and her top was a low cut black silk number with red edges on the neck and sleeves, like vivid, vibrant, bloodstains. Needless to say the ensemble made the most of her excellent assets.

“Damn girl, careful or you’re gonna steal Stiles’ boo.” Scott said, clearly impressed. His comment earned him a slap on the chest from his best friend.

“Just sticking to the plan boys, I’m happily taken. And more than ready to take care of myself if our cop gets a little too handsy.” Allison said as he crouched down and reached for something in her boots. She pulled out a small, broad bladed knife from its sheath inside her stylish shoes. The blade was clearly wicked sharp and its edge glowed in the street light.

Stiles and Scott were both taken aback by Allison’s concealed weaponry. Stiles had to admit that while Lydia’s new girlfriend was undeniably cool she was also a little intimidating and more than a little intense. 

“Okay, our man should be inside and about two shots in by now, let’s do this.” Allison said, pulling out a compact from only God knew where and checking her makeup and apparel one last time.

“You heard the lady!” Scott said, following after her as she made her way to the door of the crappy dive bar.

It’s windows were so old and dirty they looked tinted and there were more than a few scratches and at least on clear bullet hole in the solid oak of the front door. Stiles followed the attractive pair with his eyes as they made their way in, for the briefest of moments he saw into the dim light of the bar and for a fraction of a second he thought he saw a brooding, muscular man with dark hair and a black leather jacket sitting at the bar, but he couldn’t be sure, and even if he was that could have been anyone.

Stiles hated that he had to stick to recon and stay outside for this one, but everyone involved agreed it was way too dangerous to let Derek see him since he’d already been spotted twice. So reluctantly Stiles took up the job of lookout and coordinator to the scheme he thought up. Speaking of which…

Stiles took out his cheap, throwaway phone and dialed Lydia.

“Hey” He greeted, “Yeah she’s inside now. Oh yeah she looks **amazing**.” He assured the strawberry blonde tattoo artist.

“Oh yeah, she showed us, I can’t believe she walks around armed like that. Oh, you did set up that thing with the bartender right?”

Stiles asked, though he already knew the answer. Lydia had an in with one of the bartenders at the Triskelion and they’d set up a little bargain. She’d give him his next two tattoos (one colored one black ink) free of charge and in return he’d let the feisty red head slip something into their only bottle of Wolfsbane and not ask questions. This had been surprisingly easy to arrange as the bartender, Hutchins, had already been inked by Lydia and was a huge fan of her exquisite work. Initially Isaac had been worried that the mixture they were putting into the alcohol (a creation of his own design) would be ingested by people other than their intended target. However, after researching and sampling the liquor for themselves no one was worried about that anymore, that stuff was foul and stronger than hell. Stiles was pretty sure he saw literal stars after only one tiny sip.

He was calling Lydia for something to do and he knew it, damn his hyperactive nature and being confined to the sidelines!

-xXx-

Derek had been having troubling thoughts lately. And most things, let alone mere thoughts, never troubled him, which made these annoying ideas all the more…troubling.  He tried to remember the last time he’d been so conflicted as he raised his glass and drank what remained of his two shots of Wolfsbane; that damn, painful, wonderful amber fire. He couldn’t recall ever having been anywhere close to so double minded in his life.

All over some pickpocket; not even a strictly speaking “dangerous” criminal. Poor kid was probably just stealing to survive…

 But that didn’t matter it was his job to bring the kid in, and depending on how prolific he’d been with his pickpocketing he could be looking at some real time.

But, unfortunately for him, his conflictions about his job and the boy weren’t all that was troubling him. Raising his hand to catch the bartender’s eyes he ordered another small glass of the hard, strong liquor he preferred and did his best not to think about the one thing he’d been consumed with for days, his attraction to, desire for, hell, all consuming lust over the quick, sly pickpocket he’d almost arrested.

The bearded and tattooed bartender, Hotchkiss or Hotchkins or something, brought him another glass, the liquid inside it glowing amber with and inner fire you couldn’t describe. Just like **his** eyes, despite the shock, and then the mischievous glee, those beautiful eyes damn near shone with an internal fire. Those eyes smiled as much as the boys’ mouth did just before he…before he’d kissed him.

Surely an escape tactic and nothing more.

But late at night, and hell, sometimes not late at all, Derek allowed himself to think it was more, much much more. That the beautiful, mysterious boy felt some fraction of the longing he now felt for the pickpocket.

“And this is for you too.” Hotchkiss or Hotchkins or whatever said as he slid another glass identical to the one he was working on, down the bar.

“But I didn’t order another-” Derek growled, thinking bartender what’s his name was implying alcoholism or something. But the man just pointed down the bar to a beautiful dark haired girl who waved and smiled, blushing at Derek. She was way to gorgeous for a place like this; she was too stunning for a lot of places to be honest.

Confused, Derek just nodded and mouthed a “thank you” down the bar. The beautiful girl apparently took this as an invitation and walked down to him, slowly and swaying her hips, to sit down on the stool next to him.

“This seat taken?” She asked smiling sweetly.

“By you, apparently. Thanks for the drink by the way. I’m Derek.” He said, unsure how to handle her apparent interest.

“I’m Allison, and you’re **so** welcome,” the girl said, her smile getting a bit more suggestive. She snapped her fingers and the bartender turned, “Silver tequila, double shot.”

Derek was impressed, and even more so when she took the large drink in one gulp without lime, and even managed to look attractive while doing it. Allison set her empty shot glass upside down next to Derek’s full ones.

“So what do you do Derek?” Allison asked, seeming genuinely interested.

“Well currently I’m doing a passable job of holding down this stool and drinking a dent into my savings.” He replied, earning a giggle from the beautiful woman he barely thought he deserved. Her laugh was music.

“But by day I’m a cop, mostly traffic detail, minor investigations, nothing daring or exciting.” He answered.

“Interesting, that must be such a challenging career, I really admire that.” Allison said, placing a soft warm hand nonchalantly on Derek’s’ own, causing him to turn as red as her lips.

“I’ve got something right here for you to ‘admire’ sweetheart!” A loud rude voice yelled from behind the pair at the bar, its owner was a terribly drunk middle-aged man, a regular named Frank. Frank was something of an ass especially when he was drunk, which was almost constantly.

“Hey how dare-” Derek said, voice rising has he got up to knock some sense into the man, He stopped when he felt a soft but firm hand on his shoulder pushing him back down.

“I got this.” Allison said, all mirth gone from her voice and her gaze not wavering from Frank. She got up and strode over to his table, undeterred by his squadron of equally drunk friends and their cat calls as she walked up.

“Say that again? I must have misheard you.” Allison’s tone was even but underneath there was an edge of dangerous anger.

“Well if I gotta spell it out for you sweetheart I will.” Frank stood up, wobbling a bit but showing his full height, a not inconsiderable six feet two inches. He towered over the smaller but undaunted Allison.

“I got something for you to ‘admire’ right down here.” And as he said this Frank grabbed his crotch with his right hand. The last thing he’d do with that hand for several weeks.

“Thought that’s what you said, had to be sure.” Allison said quietly.

She turned around as if to leave, earning some laughs and jeers from Frank’s friends. But she spun on her left foot, turning around to kick Frank right in the chest with her heeled boot. Frank screamed, clutching his wounded torso.

“You bitch! I’ll kill you!” He raged, yelling as the rest of the bar turned to look.

Frank lunged at the girl, fist raised aimed straight for her head. A blur of sable and crimson, Allison ducked and moved fluidly out of the way, sending the two hundred and forty pound drunk into a support column. He hit his head and sat there dazed for a moment.

“Stay down.” Allison said, now towering over the blubbering mess that had only moments ago seemed a frightening adversary.

Allison turned on her heel to go back to the bar and to a thoroughly impressed Derek. She stepped past the man on the floor fully prepared to go back to her conversation. That was until she heard the soft but menacing flick of a switchblade opening.

Frank held the knife in his right hand, pointing its long keen blade at Allison’s throat. Patrons and employees alike yelled at Frank to stop, that this was way too far, but he wouldn’t listen.

Not skipping a beat, Allison reached for the blade in her boot. She held it out in front of her, a challenge but with none of the threating bravado of opponent. Frank lunged first, to his great regret. Wildly he charged knife first aiming his switchblade at Allison’s neck. She side stepped and with blinding quickness slashed with her own knife at Frank’s weapon hand.

Frank pulled his hand back, holding it but apparently unwounded.

“You missed you stupid-”

Frank’s surely witty insult will never be known to history as it was at that exact moment that the blood started pouring out of his hand. Quick and fast it came, making his right hand a bloody, dripping mess and leaving a puddle on the floor. Frank ran out of the bar, holding his maimed hand and screaming in a high pitched shriek. His friends quickly followed suit. But one had the incredibly poor judgement to call Allison a “bitch whore” as he left. This led to her rushing out the door after him saying loudly,

“What did you say? I have to be sure!”.

Derek, unsure of what to make of what just happened did what the rest of the bar was doing, going back to their drinks.

“This seat taken?” A friendly male voice from behind him asked.

Derek turned to see one of the most attractive men he’d ever seen. The young man had flawless tanned skin and gorgeous, thick, black hair, his eyes were warm and friendly yet hinted at some inner animal beneath the innocent and boy like façade. His arms were well muscled and extremely toned, as was the rest of his body judging from what Derek could see, the boys’ tight black t-shirt hardly leaving much to the imagination.

“No, um recently opened up.” Derek said, looking at the door the beautiful, dangerous young woman had run out of only moments before. He was having an unusually eventful night.

“Great. I’m Scott.” The man said with a smile, showing off brilliantly white teeth.

The stranger slowly shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor beside the bar. Once free of his coat he raised his arms and slowly, luxuriantly stretched, causing his already minimal shirt to ride well up on to his chest. Derek couldn’t help but stare in amazement at the young man’s lean, sculpted body, his abs making impressive ridges and his muscles leading into a “V” pointing down his pelvis. Derek’s eyes naturally followed down to his jeans, noting the rips and tears in some incredibly interesting places…

“Whatcha drinking?” Scott asked innocently, apparently oblivious to the affect he was having on the cop.

“Oh-whiskey, Wolfsbane.” Derek replied, taking a sip of the aforementioned drink, suddenly finding himself in need to some liquid courage to help keep his composure.

“Never heard of it, do you think I’d like it?” Scott asked leaning in close as he sat down, his breath smelled like cinnamon and coffee.

Derek cleared his throat.

“I’m not sure; it’s pretty strong, kind of rough.” Derek said, looking into his glass, trying to look anywhere but the face of the gorgeous man he was talking to, the man he was already having wildly inappropriate thoughts about. He sipped his drink again, trying to project an aura of contemplative stoicism.

“That’s just how I like my drinks!” Scott exclaimed, sounding innocent as a child, “And my dates.” He added, leaning in and speaking softer with a distinctly mischievous glint in his eyes that remained Derek painfully of another excessively attractive boy.

Derek chocked on his sip of whiskey in a distinctly non stoic manner.

At that exact moment, as Scott was lightly and playfully laughing at Derek’s loss of composure, one of the bar’s many rowdy patrons jostled past the two, knocking Scott off balance. Without thinking Derek reached out to steady the near flailing young man, one hand on his strong, smooth chest and the other on his warm upper thigh.

“Thanks, I owe you one. You wanna get out of here?” Scott said, all innocence gone from his voice, in its’ place was a raw, unabashed desire.

It didn’t take Derek longer than a few moments to finish off his drink and leave the bar with the attractive stranger.

“Got him, omw to his place now ;)” Scott sent Stiles the text quickly and surreptitiously as he followed Derek down the street to his apartment.

Sighing and a little peeved at his packmates cavalier attitude Stiles followed the pair as they walked down the street and to an apartment building, at a safe distance of course. Everything was going just as planned, now if only Isaac and Lydia could do their part as well.

-xXx-

Lydia Martin, consummate actress, sat shivering on a bench in the NYPD precinct station quietly sobbing, real tears thank you very much. Her eyeliner was appropriately smudged and her hair was just the right amount of disheveled to convey distress and the need for assistance. Despite the attentions of her sweater vested, curly haired boyfriend and his numerous comforting gestures, she maintained an air of desolate inconsolability. She was method as hell and she was about a mile deep into her character.

“Miss Martin?” A sober, kindly looking bald man asked, trying to sounds as gentle and comforting as possible.

“Ye-yes?” Lydia said looking up, using a tissue to wipe away several fresh tear drops from her eyes.

“I’m officer Deaton. If you’re ready I can take your statement now, if you’d just like to come over and have a seat at my desk.”

 Deaton motioned her and her boyfriend, a blonde curly haired boy in a preppy sweater vest, over to his wooden desk. He cleared some space on the surface of his cluttered workspace and asked the couple to be seated in the chairs opposite his own.

“Anytime you’re ready Miss Martin, and please try to be as detailed as possible.” Deaton prompted, taking out the requisite forms for reporting a theft. He clicked open his pen and she began.

“I was on my way home from Starbucks, the one on fifth you know? And I was trying to get to my apartment before it got too late because the Bachelor was on tonight. So I was taking a different route than I usually do, going down some side streets and alleys on St. Marks’ and that’s when-that’s when he-he-”.

At this point in her story Lydia erupted into a fresh bout of sobs and had to take a moment, to compose herself. Her attentive boyfriend wrapped an arm around her trying to calm her down.

“There, there baby doll, I know this has been hell for you but you have to tell them everything you know so they can catch the bad man who did this.” Her boyfriend said, kissing her on the forehead.

“I know boo bear, I know.” Lydia said, taking a deep breath and composing herself. She continued.

“He came from out of nowhere, he reached for my purse and wouldn’t let go! I tried to struggle for a moment and that’s when I got a good look at him.”

Deaton made ready to take notes on the assailants’ physical characteristics. “Please Miss Martin, be as exact as you can.”

“He was tall but kinda lanky, on the thinner side you know? He was white, in his late teens, had freckles on his face and neck. His eyes were this brownish amber color and his hair was short and brown as well. Oh and he had this really bright red hoodie on, and blue jeans with holes in them.” Lydia recited in a clear if distressed tone. This was the description they’d agreed on, an exact sketch of Stiles.

Deaton’s’ eyes widened almost imperceptibly, this perp was an exact match to the pickpocket Hale had been researching. He’d definitely want to hear about this. He briefly considered calling his partner but decided against it as it was one of his few nights off. He would however file away this report with the rest of Hale’s evidence; this would surely help speed things up.

“He stole my Balenciaga hand bag! He-he-he- just took it and I had my credit cards and cash and iphone in there.” Lydia all but wailed, breaking into fresh sobs.

“Miss, I want you to know we take this sort of thing very seriously, theft is a considerable crime and we are going to do all we can to catch this criminal and get your belongings back. As a matter of fact we have one of our best officers already working on finding this particular lowlife. I’m going to put your report in his file and put you in touch with him first thing in the morning. I’m sure with your help we can catch this thief soon.”

The girls eyes widened in gratitude and happiness.

“Oh thank you sir, that sounds wonderful, I do hope I can help in any way possible.”

Deaton nodded and took the report over to Hale’s desk, opening a drawer he filed the papers away with the already substantial folder his partner had compiled on the pickpocket who called himself “Stiles” or the “Fox of Manhattan”.

“One more thing, if it’s not too much trouble, could you please get me a glass of water? This whole thing has made me so stressed out.” Lydia asked sweetly, flashing a shy smile.

“Of course, one moment.” Deaton said, returning seconds later with the drink.

As soon as the liquid touched her lips Lydia seized up and fell to the floor, convulsing violently and shaking like a leaf. She knocked over papers and chairs as she fell, gathering the attention of every cop in the station. She didn’t seem to be getting any better and everyone huddled around, intent on trying to help the beautiful girl in convulsions. Several cops tried to restrain her while another attempted CPR, though none of them could remember if CPR was an appropriate response to a seizure victim. Deaton was the most attentive and concerned of them all, feeling as if he’d done something wrong that led to this awful episode.

Isaac had to admit it was extremely convincing. If he didn’t know it was an act he’d be dead worried about her. He kept his eyes on the cops as he quietly walked back wads towards Officer Hale’s desk. Quickly and fluidly he slid open the drawer and took out the substantial file on Stiles, the one he’d seen Deaton add to only moments before.

Everyone was so concerned about Lydia and so relieved when she recovered a few moments later that no one remarked on the absence of her boyfriend, or indeed that she’d ever had one with her.

-xXx-

Scott could tell the concoction Isaac had made was taking its toll on Derek. Even before they got inside his apartment the formerly gruff and distant cop seemed infinitely more drunk and out of it than he should have been. He was slurring his words, laughing like someone a quarter his age and leaning on Scott for support. Isaac said this would happen, that if they timed it right he should briefly seem incredibly intoxicated but then soon after fall harmlessly into a restorative, though extremely deep sleep.

“Ya know Scoot, Scotch, Scotty boy, I really like you,” Derek slurred as they entered his apartment, Scott supporting most of Derek’s’ weight by this point.

“I like you too buddy.” Scott said, trying to steer the inebriated cop away from any sharp or dangerous surfaces and onto his couch.

“But I also haf a confession to make-” Derek said, trying to sound somber and grave “Yes your honor a confession if it please the court.”

This Derek found hilarious and erupted into a fit of laughter that lasted a good five minutes. Once he came back to himself somewhat he continued.

“I am a crook and a scoundred- scoundref, **scoundrel**. For while you’re extremely sexy and really nice, random bar guy I just met- my heart belongs to another!” Derek said this with all the gravity and seriousness he could muster while Scott took off his boots and tried to make him comfortable on the sofa.

“Oh yeah? He must be something special, why don’t you tell me about him?” Scott replied, looking around for a blanket and some pillows.

“Oh he’s amazing, this beautiful gorgeous, drop dead sexy guy. He’s got this look ya know? And this **face** that just - nmppffff kills me.” 

“Sounds like an amazing guy, congratulations man.” Scott said, propping up Derek’s head with some pillows he got from the bedroom.

“Oh he is. He is, I’ve been going crazy over him for days man, DAYS. But it won’t work out, he’s a sneaky theify pickpocket and I’m a sworn officer of the law…” Derek trailed off sadly.

Scott made the possibly disastrous decision to encourage the now morose cop as he slid off his jeans and T-shirt in an attempt to get him ready for sleep.

“Never say never dude. Besides…I have it on VERY good authority that Stiles is into you just as much as you’re into him. Also, called it!” Scott couldn’t help  himself, he had called this like a day ago hadn’t he?

“Does he really?! Wait- uh why, how -did **you** know his name is Biles? That’s top secret police info.” Derek said, his initial euphoria replaced now with a hazy, vague skepticism.

“Don’t worry about it Derek. Hey just go to sleep and have a nice dream about that cute, sexy ‘theify pickpocket’ that has a crush on you, yeah?” Scott cooed.

His advice was hardly necessary as Derek had passed out almost before he’d gotten to the word “crush”. The cop lay there on the couch, in only a pair of black boxers, dead to the world and with a dorky, contended smile on his face. Scott quickly began searching the apartment.

The hustler had finally found a folder full of info about Stiles and crimes he was suspected in when he got a call from the thief himself.

“Yeah?” He answered.

“Man where are you? Everything okay? You were supposed to be back twenty minutes ago!” Stiles fairly yelled into the phone.

“Keep your shirt on, I’m almost done here. In fact, why don’t you come in and help me? It’s number 234, door’s unlocked.”

“You know I can’t it’s too dangerous!” Stiles replied

“Not anymore, your cop crush is out cold and should be for about another nine hours. Trust me, it’s totally safe. Plus don’t you wanna see him again?” Scott asked mischievously.

“Be there in a few. Also shut up.” Stiles said and immediately hung up.

Scott laughed to himself as, only a few moments later and faster than he would have thought humanly possible, Stiles was quietly making his way into the apartment. The thief entered without making a single sound, though his caution was hardly necessary Scott had to admire the skill involved.

All Stiles’ composure and finesse evaporated when he saw Derek, nearly naked, sprawled out on the couch. His powerful, sculpted chest more finely etched than marble, his normally stern face finally peaceful and carefree in sleep. Stiles breath left his lungs as his eyes traveled downward to the sizeable bulge in the cops’ underwear; clearly he was having a very, **very** pleasurable dream.

“What’s the matter, cop got your tongue?” Scott smirked from across the room.

Stiles was still incapable of speech and just starred.

“Anyways, I had a very, _productive_ evening; you would not believe how wild your crush is in bed, my ass is goanna be sore for days, and that’s saying something.” Scott said.  

Stiles pierced him with a look overflowing with hurt, betrayal and a huge amount of jealousy.

“Relax, relax, I’m only kidding, nothing happened, I got him undressed for bed and he passed out just like Isaac said he would. You’ve got dibs on this one Stiles.” Scott gestured to the sleeping Adonis between them.

“Anyway, I did have a productive night; I got all the info on you he has in his apartment. So your plan worked, now we know everything he does and can plan around it to keep him off your trail.” Scott held up the thick folder of evidence, “And I also found out something interesting.”

Stiles gesutured wildly with his hands, “What?!” he asked, exasperated with Scott and with this whole night.

“Derek Hale, NYPD police officer, has a massive, uncontrollable crush on a certain cute, sly pickpocket named Stiles Stilinski.”

-xXx-

P.S. 

Thank you all so much for your comments! 

P.P.S.

The next couple chapters are going to get pretty dark and deal with some backstory, should be out soon. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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